


The Final Trial

by AliceTheBrave



Series: Fighting, Flying, and Falling 101: A Mandalorian Romance [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Ceremonial Duel, Childhood Friends, Enemies to Rivals, Gen, it's pretty much two eleven year olds fighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29123775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceTheBrave/pseuds/AliceTheBrave
Summary: Paz Vizsla is angry, deadly, and just hitting adolescence. He's studied long, trained hard, and he is ready to take the Creed. All he has to do is do is pass his Final Trial. It shouldn't prove difficult. He is, after all, the best of his peers. But new Foundlings some and go every day, Mandalore's survivors still shuffling to regroup, and the Beroya's boy isn't as weak as he first appears.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Paz Vizsla
Series: Fighting, Flying, and Falling 101: A Mandalorian Romance [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2137011
Comments: 1
Kudos: 50





	The Final Trial

The arena was more crowded than Paz usually found it, though he couldn’t say that he minded. Competition was good. Assured victory, even better. Looking around at the murmuring younglings of the  _ ‘ade  _ he was more confident in his victory than he had ever been. Not that he was much concerned in the first place.

He was after all, the largest of his peers, the strongest, and the most capable. He was the leader of his class and he would come out as the lead of these trials. He was, after all, a Vizsla. 

He had passed the Oral Exams and the tactical simulations – in the face of that this challenge was hardly worth concern. Sparring was something he excelled at – something he reveled in. There was more to being  _ Mandokar  _ than a proficiency for brawls, he knew that. Tactics and cunning, support and intel, all things that his lessons had taught him the value of in abstract ideals that did nothing to make them seem half as alluring to him as the physical sense of battle. Artillery, and blasters, knives and spears, knuckles and kicks – these were his calling, this was how he would walk the Way. The way that his most ancient ancestors had walked it in the days of Mandalore the Great when things were grand and simple and bloody. The way things were not anymore.

Mandalore was gone.

But Clan Vizsla remained. Paz was still here, and even if his  _ buir _ were not, his sister had come to witness him claim victory and swear the Creed. This was enough.

He had attended her final trial, years ago, and it had been a much different thing. Larger, brighter. Open arenas with grand tapestries and twice the number of competitors. Blaring trumpets and enough honor hanging in the air to make his heart hamer with pride.

His would be a different thing. Enclosed by dirt and concrete, faint shafts of light from above, a dozen dirty youths, foundling and Mandalore-born. More foundlings than he had ever seen before the fall. Mandalorians born on Mandalore were few now and would only become fewer until they were no more. This was the aftermath of the Purge. So too was the increasing number of Foundlings joining the fold.  _ Alor  _ said that the Foundlings were their future now. This was the Way.

But Paz was Mandalore-born. Paz was a Vizsla. And he had survived the purge. These scrawny welps would learn what that meant.

“Focus,  _ vod _ ,” his sister chided, blue helmet tilted down at him in disapproval - blue for reliability, for trust-worthiness. She had been trusted to escort him and the other young ones off planet before the enemy arrived. She had done it and Paz had never even seen the faces of those that would take their home from them. Some days he resented her for it, most days he was simply grateful that she was there.

“I am focused,” he said, before he backtracked at the stare he could feel behind the blank sheen of her visor, “As much as I need to be. There’s no real competition here. It’ll be a quick match, whoever it is.”

She tsked and shook her head, visor turning to watch the other youths, disapproval clear in the line of her shoulders.

“Too much confidence will be your downfall,  _ Paz’ika _ .” 

“Don’t call me that!” He snapped, because he was hardly small anymore, was about to take the Creed. He was past the age for pet names and mocking.

She chuckled beneath her helm and he could do nothing but grind his teeth and glare. Irritated, he turned to follow her gaze as it assessed his peers, idle though it was.

A dozen mandalorian youths and their Clanmates or caretakers. Some he recognized some he did not. Anxiety bled from most, excitement from others. Anticipation from one.

He was a small little thing, there across the arena, unassuming and bleeding a quiet anticipation that Paz couldn’t put a name to. He was not buzzing like the others, was not fidgeting with fear or excitement. He was assured.

Paz did not like it.

Paz had a right to be assured - he was the clear superior of this batch. He was strong, he was proven - he was a Vizsla.

This little one - younger than him maybe, smaller most definitely - with his big brown eyes and curls, skinny and watchful, what did he have to be sure of?

He must have felt the heat of Paz’ glare as he looked up and blinked at him in surprise, one eyebrow raising in question behind his shaggy curls. Paz could not help but sneer. He received no reply but a faintly bored look of confusion before the boy’s attention was stolen by another.

The  _ Beroya  _ approached him, a quiet woman in plain armor. Paz had met her once, when they had first regrouped after the Purge. Her voice was smooth and her tone like glass. She had no personal sigil, no adornment - he could tell nothing of her person beneath the  _ beskar’gam _ and it unnerved even him who had been raised with such things. He supposed that was why she was their  _ Beroya  _ \- one must be intimidating to hunt so many.

She set her gloved hand gently on the boy’s head and he smiled up at her adoringly if not quietly. They exchanged words and the boy nodded and Paz realized that he was her Foundling. He had heard that she had taken one, plucked him from the fields of some burning planet before the Purge, when they had still defended others. He had never met the child, never cared. New foundlings arrived every day - some left for with their saviors to rejoin surviving Clans and some stayed. 

The  _ Beroya’s _ had stayed. She had no clan to rejoin. She had shed that sigil to join the Death Watch and had shed that after the destruction they had wrought. Paz somedays could not remember if the Death Watch had been good or bad - if they had fought for Mandalore or watched it burn. His sister would not speak of it and it was not sung in their histories. 

He supposed it did not matter. They were  _ mando’ade _ , brothers all, this their training stressed above everything else. Loyalty was a feverishly kept tenant of these surviving Mandalorians. 

Still, her runt looked too sure of himself for Paz’ liking. 

“ _ Vod _ ,” his sister chided and he scoffed at her before turning to pick apart the rest of his so-called competition.

///////

“Paz Vizsla. You have come before your Gods and elders to show your skill and strength, in order to prove yourself worthy of walking the Way. This, your last trial, will be one of combat. Do you accept?”

“Yes,” he said, because that is what one was supposed to say, in sharp clipping  _ Mando’a _ .

_ Alor  _ nodded his head, pleased Paz thought, before turning to the rest of the youths in ranks. Whoever he named next - guided by wisdom or whim or the Gods themselves - would be Paz’ opponent. He could feel the person behind him shaking in their durasteel tipped boots.

“Din Djarin. You have come before your Gods and elders to show your skill and strength, in order to prove yourself worthy of walking the Way. This, your last trial, will be one of combat. Paz Vizsla shall be your opponent. Do you accept?”

“Yes,” came a voice, soft and sure,  _ Mando’a  _ accented just slightly, enough that no one would notice if they were not straining to hear it as Paz was. Paz was and he heard it and he knew with utter certainty that this Djarin was the  _ beroya’s _ boy. No one else would sound so sure of themselves even faced with Paz as their opponent.

_ Alor  _ nodded and turned to the next pair, and the pair after that, but Paz did not listen because he did not care and because that damn runt had pissed him off. He didn’t even bother to sound anxious! Paz was twice his size, had been training since he could walk and this kid thought he would still succeed.

A glint of movement caught his eye from the spectators and he saw the  _ beroya _ tilt her visor toward him minutely. He did not know what it meant but in that moment his anger turned to surprise.

////////

“You sure about this,  _ vaar’ika _ ” He taunted, eyeing the kid where he stood across from him in the dirt, eyes even bigger and browner this close. Paz could easily lift him off the ground, no question.

Djarin blinked at him blankly for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to be offended or not.

“Yes?” He answered and the uptilt at the end made it sound like he didn’t know why Paz was asking. Paz had no response other than to growl at him before the gong rang.

Djarin moved fast, darting close before Paz had even settled into a proper stance. He struck out to stop his advance even as the kid feinted and dove at his left flank, little fists sending sharp pain up his ribs. He grunted, unprepared but barely affected. He had been taught to take worse hits than that. Snarling, Paz reached out fast enough to grab the kid and toss him off in a purely instinctual response. Djarin landed awkwardly on his feet, startled at the distance Paz had created between them.

“ _Oya_!” Called someone from the crowd and Paz seethed.

This  _ kriffing  _ brat with his little punches and quick feet. Paz was more annoyed than concerned. He had expected any easy fight, big eyes and fragile bones seeming too fresh to the Way to offer any resistance against his drive to win. He hadn’t expected Djarin to have a fighting spirit, hadn’t expected him to be quick like a viper, sharp like a screech hawk. The little one across from him didn't seem so young now, just small, subtle, deadly like those pretty little snakes that felled giants. Well, he might be faster but it would take him some work to fell Paz. 

Paz only needed to land one or two good hits. Let him come close then, Paz would be ready.

Cautious now, Djarin circled him, eyes flickering for an opening that Paz wouldn't let him have. He had been trained well, was patient and assessing in a way that Paz knew would lead to quick and decisive action. 

Paz was big and while most of the time he reveled in it, he’d learned quickly that he was also slow. He’d trained, gotten faster, but he’d never be as quick as Djarin and his little fists. So he’d gotten tough. The runt would have a difficult time getting through his guard twice.

Still, this circling and waiting, it wasn’t Paz’ style. In fact it was starting to piss him off.

“Ay, what’s your problem? Is this a fight or a dance?” He jeered, though he might as well have been talking to thin air with the attention that Djarin paid him. It was infuriating how he could have his full attention on him and still feel ignored. “What, did I shake you too hard when I tossed you?” He kept turning, following Djarin’s movements, the way his eyes flickered at his every twitch and breath. Still there was no response, not even a grimace of annoyance. “Are you gonna fight me or keep pacing like a lost pet?”

Djarin stopped and shifted, turned the other way and began to circle him again. Paz was about to lose his mind. How long had they been doing this? He began to sweat under his padded blacks, the weight of the crowd, the eyes of the elders pressing at his back. Restlessness bit at him from within and without and he couldn't understand why Djarin was drawing this out. He didn’t need to win. Not like Paz needed to win. He was a Vizsla and Vizsla’s were the best, and so he would win this match. Djarin didn’t have that pressure. He didn’t need to win, just excel. Just prove that he had what it took.

“What the hell are you doing? Don’t you want to pass? We’re never going to do that if we keep staring at each other! Hey!” Djarin just kept circling, stance low, fists up, eyes watchful. This was an exhibition. Right now all they were exhibiting was how long Djarin could walk and how loud Paz could yell. 

He snarled and cursed, and stamped once for good measure before he launched himself toward the smaller boy. It wasn't the smartest move, had not been his plan, but he couldn't let Djarin make an embarrassment out of them like that.

Djarin moved then, like lightning, and circled round to Paz’ back, kicking at the back of his knee hard enough to make him stumble but not fall. Paz didn't miss the grunt of frustrated surprise when he managed to reach around and clip him on the shoulder before he dodged. Turning to gloat at the guy, he was taken by surprise by the lack of distance, Djarin crowding in before he could stop turning and taking a shot right at his solar plexus, dropping to slip between his legs before Paz could strike him. 

So, he realized he was done if he got caught, Paz thought through his coughing and wheezing.

The crowd roared in his ears but he tuned them out, the roaring of his blood just as loud. Djarin was on his feet watching carefully as Paz held his guard even as he regained his breath. He wasn’t green enough to drop out of his stance just because he couldn't breathe. Djarin seemed annoyed if not impressed.

Taking a running start he dove for Paz’ now weaker knee, kick aiming for the side of it, before Paz reached down and caught him by the leg. He had a split moment to smirk at the guy’s surprised face before he hurled him across the arena.

“Oya, vod!” His sister screamed from the sidelines even as he straightened, watching Djarin tumble across the dirt and crash into the barriers on the far side with a clang and a cloud of dust. He smiled, even as he watched for any sign of movement. There was no way Djarin would recover from that. 

Except that he twitched and groaned, and pulled himself to his knees with all the effort of moving a mountain. Paz stared at the dirt mixed with blood running down his face and found himself vaguely impressed. Djarin turned to him, blinking heavily as if to focus his vision before he sighed and stood, stance weaker than before but no less willing. He raised his little fists and Paz could swear he saw a challenge in those eyes.

Well. If one hit wouldn’t take him down, he’d have to try two.

Yelling, Paz took off at a run for his opponent, nearly laughing at the surprised look of dread that crossed his face. Djarin rolled out of the way just before Paz could reach him, scrabbling in the dirt to put enough distance between them. He was slower than he had been before, more disoriented. Pas must have given him a concussion when he threw him.

Djarin rallied quickly, dodging just enough to avoid Paz’ next punch and grabbing his arm in a vice grip. Paz didn’t know exactly what he did next, which way he moved, just that pain exploded through his arm and Djarin was out of range before he realized he’d broken it.

Roaring, Paz glared at the kid, cradling his useless arm, somewhat assuaged by the fact that Djarin was still bleeding from his head and breathing like he’d been fighting for his life. Good. Neither of them would get out of this unmarred.

Djarin huffed and watched him warily, but Paz waited, in too much pain to try another charge, too cautious now that Djarin had proven himself dangerous. They watched each other for a moment, and Djarin’s breathing slowed even as his footing slipped in the dust. He was running out of time, his head wound creeping up on him just that bit faster than his blood loss now that his adrenaline was ebbing. This stalemate would cost him the match, and both of them knew it.

Paz could see him grit his teeth, weighing his options. Paz smirked at him, all superiority and mocking and that seemed to make Djarin choose. Next thing he knew the kid was launching himself at Paz’s legs, all his negligible weight thrown into knocking him down.

If he had managed it Paz doubted the jolt to his arm would have let him get back up before Djarin had taken the opportunity to beat him bloody.

Too bad for Djarin that Paz was even heavier than he looked.

He kicked him off, one foot hard to the ribs, and he felt the tell-tale crack even as Djarin tumbled away. Paz didn’t give him a chance to recover, following and landing as many good hits as he could. He didn’t expect to receive just as many in return, but Djarin kicked and punched and bit and the both of them tumbled around in the dirt, blood mixing in the dust, and grating at their wounds.

Eventually Paz wrestled Djarin around into a choke hold, his considerable strength barring escape. Scrabbling at his arms, Djarin hissed and cursed, and Paz yelled when his fingers dug into his fractured arm, clamping around bruised muscle and grinding it into the broken bone. He released him on instinct, blinding pain overcoming sense before he recovered enough to see the fist that came a second before it caught him in the eye. 

He grabbed at that hand and pulled Djarin in, slamming their foreheads together in a move that hurt him but would incapacitate Djarin. 

The kid crumpled like sand.

Paz waited a moment, chest heaving, pain singing through him before he was sure he wouldn't get back up. He stood, awkwardly, and stumbled away, waiting to hear the match called to an end.

Looking over to the crowd with a grin, eager to see his sister’s reaction, he met instead the visor of the  _ beroya _ , head tilted toward her foundling though he was sure she didn't seem appropriately worried.

The only warning he had was the thump of feet on dirt before he was falling backward, a crushing weight around his neck. He hit the dirt with a shout, the thing choking him tightening around his throat until he couldn't breath. Scrabbling at it, he pulled at cloth and dug his nails in, ripping at clothes and the unmistakable squelch of flesh. A pained hiss caught his ears and little hands reached down to pin his up over his head where he could not get enough leverage to free them, though he felt as though he was lifting his captor instead in his effort.

“Yield!” Hissed that same sure voice, slightly accented but not unless you knew to look for it. Paz hissed and struggled, thrashing against the legs Djarin was using to squeeze the life out of him and the grip he had on his hands. He heard the pained grunt as he smashed the guy’s back into the dirt. Djarin’s legs tightened and Paz’ vision began to blur at the edges.

“Yield!” Djarin hissed again, and Paz was sure he could toss him off if he had enough air to roll them over.

“Enough!” Came the shout and Paz gasped free air as Djarin immediately released him. He rolled over, away from the little warrior, and wretched violently in the dirt. Djarin did not move.

“We have seen enough,”  _ Alor _ continued, voice firm, and strangely pleased, “you have both proven yourselves worthy. Skill, tenacity, a lust for life and victory. Din Djarin, you carried on the fight even after an injury that should have incapacitated you. Many stronger than you have given up after less. Paz Vizsla, you would have torn the very flesh from Djarin’s bones before conceding defeat. Tempered, such tenacity would serve the  _ Mando’ade  _ well. I say you have the potential to become  _ Mandokar _ . Are there any here who oppose it?!” At this he turned to the assembled ‘ _ ade,  _ arms raised in challenge.

“ _ Oya, Manda!” _ Came the roaring answer, and Paz vomited his lunch even as Djarin blacked out.

//////////

Paz’ sister bought him his first drink as a Man right in the infirmary, even as the healers applied salve to the deep bruises around his throat. It hurt like hell to swallow but Paz downed it anyway. Tomorrow he would undergo the proper ceremonies and swear the Creed. He would don his ancestral armor, the helm their  _ buir  _ had smithed when he was born, the cuirass that had been gifted him by his  _ ba’buir _ , which his sister had smuggled out of their mansion when they evacuated. They were the only pieces of pure beskar that would make up his suit, but it was much more than most could even dream of. Clan Vizsla had been rich once, enough that even now they had more than most.

Across from him, Din Djarin lay incapacitated.

Paz felt almost bad for him, with his bandaged head and legs, more a mummy than a warrior. But he would swear the Creed tomorrow as well and that made Paz feel better about it. Already the  _ baroya  _ polished the shining helm that she had commissioned for him. Paz’ sister had said that she spent the years since she had taken Djarin in scavenging the galaxy for what scraps of  _ beskar _ she could, all so she had a worthy helm to present her  _ ad _ if and when he swore the creed.

It was a pretty big if to spend so much effort on, especially considering how small her boy was compared to his peers. Paz hoped he would have a growth spurt before they finished their training, or he wouldn’t be able to keep himself from calling him a runt forever.

They would be brothers in arms now, he realized and was surprised at the giddiness with which he realized it. As much as it hurt, as angry as he had been, Din Djarin had given him the fight of his life. He had been angry when he first woke, that he had not earned a victory, that his final trial had ended in a stalemate. But, when he saw Djarin across from him, wrapped in bandages and snoring faintly, it occurred to him that it had been a long time since any of his peers had tested him like that. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at an opponent that should have been his equal and was unsure of his victory. 

He hoped that they would spar again, that he could learn how to block every strike from those little fists, that he could teach Djarin how to properly take a fall.

Not that Paz had ever learned, either.

**Author's Note:**

> Mandoade/'ade: Mandalorians (plural)  
> Mandokar: the Mandalorian ideal, the perfect combination of their virtues  
> Buir: parent  
> Alor: leader  
> Vod: sibling  
> -'ika: a diminutive suffix, used for terms of endearment or mocking  
> Beroya: bounty hunter  
> Beskar'gam: suit of armor  
> Mando'a: Mandalorian language  
> Vaa'rika: runt  
> Oya!: general term of approval/encouragement  
> Oya, Manda!: expression of Mandalorian solidarity and perpetuity, emotional and assertive  
> Ba'buir: grandparent  
> Kriffing: general expletive, i.e. fucking
> 
> Tumblr: @ AliceTheBrave  
> Twitter: @ally_alice_als


End file.
